


Show and Tell

by Smirkdoctor (orphan_account)



Series: Rosie Watson Parentlock Fluff [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, How I Saved Your Father, M/M, Parentlock, Storytelling, school-age rosie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-24
Updated: 2017-09-11
Packaged: 2018-12-06 05:11:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11593620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/Smirkdoctor
Summary: When John Watson and Sherlock Holmes receive a list of the items Rosie has shared for Show and Tell over the last school year, they discover she has an interesting explanation for why scars happen.





	1. Where Scars Come From

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dmellieon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dmellieon/gifts).



> Here we go again! This installment will have a few poignant moments as Rosie sees, asks about, and hears the stories behind some of the scars John and Sherlock carry.
> 
> Dedicated to Dee, who is always encouraging and lovely, and who wanted some parentlock exploring the day-to-day practice of parenting. I hope you like it.

Rosie Watson-Holmes’s Show and Tell List, Academic Year 2021-2022, Ms Roth’s First Grade Class

Human skull, identified as “Billy the Second”

Book written by her father, John Watson:  _ A Study in Pink _

Song played on violin: “Let it Go”

EpiPen (and impromptu lesson on Rosie’s egg allergy)

New Scotland Yard badge belonging to Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade (this was kept by teacher and returned to Rosie’s guardian at time of pick-up from school)

Umbrella belonging to Uncle Mycroft (She seemed very upset when we ran out of time and she couldn’t show us the “secret”.)

Pictures of a bulldog puppy: “Gladstone”

“Chemistry Experiment” baking soda and vinegar combined to generate carbon dioxide (Rosie wrote the chemical equation on the board before combining the substances.)

Microscope and slide of plant cells (discouraged from transporting home-prepared slide of red blood cells)

Child-size lab coat (“Just like Aunt Molly’s!”)

Pink stethoscope (“Like daddy’s...but his is black.”)

Stuffed bear dressed as Sherlock Holmes, in long coat, scarf, and deerstalker (“Mrs. Hudson got it for me.”)

Newspaper clipping: “Hat Man and Robin” (“Those are my daddies!”)

Wedding photo of John and Mary Watson (“That’s Mama Mary!”)

Drawing of family, in crayon (including all the people mentioned above)

Scar on right shin (“I got it saving Toby from escaping from Aunt Molly. Scars are what you get when you protect the people you care about!”)


	2. John's Shoulder

Rosie’s favorite scar in the whole, wide world was the large star of glossy skin on her father’s left shoulder. Her very first memory was of falling asleep cradled against his chest, that star shining only inches from her face, her small fingers curled just at the edge of it. She remembered touching it gently, letting her fingers slip over the smooth, hard ridges. 

Once, when Rosie was three and a half, she had asked her daddy to tell her the story behind that shiny star. But he had only straightened his back and stood very stiff and still, not turning away from the stove where he was cooking dinner. And all he said was “I got that during a big fight, a long, long time ago.” 

Rosie didn’t understand that answer at all, or why her daddy, who was usually so good at telling stories, wouldn’t say more. But that was okay. Whenever she didn’t understand, she knew just who to ask. The afternoons she spent alone at Baker Street with daddy’s friend, the funny tall man named Sherlock, were always good for asking questions. 

One day, when her father was away at work and she and Sherlock were sitting quietly side by side at the kitchen table, she looked up from her colouring and asked, “What happened to my Daddy’s shoulder?” 

She saw Sherlock’s hand pause over the knob on his microscope. And his eyes moved from the eyepiece to focus on the kitchen wall in front of them. Rosie was able to take three deep breaths before he blinked and turned to her with a careful expression. 

"His left shoulder?” 

Rosie nodded, a little worried that she had done something wrong. But Sherlock had told her that there were _no bad questions_. And unlike other grown-ups, he took her questions seriously and _always_ told the truth. 

He inhaled sharply and blew the air out through his lips, almost like he was trying to whistle. He shook his head quickly and squared his shoulders.

“Rosie, your father is a very brave man. He was injured during a war in a far away place.” He paused, considering. “A war is a very large, scary, long fight that happens for a lot of different reasons.” 

Sherlock swallowed as a pained look passed over his face, “Your dad was working very hard to help people with their scrapes and bruises, because he is a doctor. And while he was taking care of another person who was fighting beside him, he got…shot.” 

“Like with a Nerf gun?” 

Sherlock nodded slowly, and brushed Rosie’s bangs off her forehead. 

“Yes, but not with a piece of foam.” He cleared his throat and continued, “Rather, with a piece of _metal_ that...went in the front of his shoulder, all the way through, and came out on the other side.” 

Rosie suddenly felt cold and very, very scared. She was happy that Sherlock’s big hand was on her head, because she felt like running away, but that would mean she would be alone. And she did not want to be alone right now, thinking about her daddy and the star on his shoulder and the bad men who hurt him. 

She worked very hard to hold back tears, thinking that maybe this _had_ been a bad question after all. But she wanted to hear the rest of the story, so she looked up with big, glistening eyes. 

"And then what?” 

Sherlock smiled in a way that only looked halfway happy. “Then some other doctors took very good care of your daddy, and he eventually came back home to England. But he has a scar where he was shot.” 

“What’s a _scar_?” 

“A scar is a mark on your body from when you don’t heal perfectly. It’s a marker that something harmed you, but you survived. And your daddy has that scar because he was protecting people.” 

Rosie nodded seriously. She was very proud of her father, and she vowed to kiss his shoulder the next time she saw him and tell him that. 

She wondered if she would ever get a scar. It sounded very scary. 

But she was a very brave little girl. 


	3. Sherlock's Nose

Ever since the day of that conversation with Sherlock, Rosie had been on the lookout for scars. Sometimes she would sit and stare at the people around her, moving her face very close to any part of their skin that looked different from the rest around it. Maybe Sherlock would let her borrow his magnifying glass sometime, so she could look even closer.

One quiet afternoon, after getting home from preschool, grabbing a cookie from Mrs. Hudson, and rushing up the stairs to the flat she and daddy shared with Sherlock, she got just such a chance.

She glanced up from watering a small pot of flowers at the window overlooking the street and, for some reason, a patch of shine off the side of Sherlock’s nose caught her eye. She nearly dropped her watering can in excitement.

She rushed over, grabbed his magnifier off the table beside his chair, scaled his lap, and proceeded to look very closely indeed at the bit of skin. She ran her finger over it and exclaimed, “Sherlock!”

“Yes, Rosie?” He seemed to be holding back a laugh. He lowered the mobile phone he had been tapping on in order to give the girl his full attention.

“You have a scar!” As she continued to run her finger over and over the small, round indentation in his skin, smoother in texture than the area around it, she wondered how she had never noticed it before.

Now Sherlock did laugh, “Yes, I do. _That_ is from when I had the chicken pox.”

“Like I did?” Rosie had heard all about her episode of “itchy spots” two years ago.

He looked at her fondly and leaned his forehead against hers. “Exactly like you did. It was at the same time, actually.”

Rosie paused in her investigation of his scar to shake her head at the man. “Sherlock, that’s silly! Grown-ups don’t get chicken pox! Daddy said even kids don’t usually get it...I only did because I’m so special!”

At that, Sherlock laughed again. “Well then...I must be special, too, because I caught them from you.” He pulled gently on her left pigtail, then twisted the curl around his finger as he continued. “And that happened because I was taking care of you for a few afternoons before you got...spotty.”

Rosie brought her tiny index finger to his face again, letting it rest over the small divot.

“You got this,” she said, “because you were taking care of me?”

Sherlock nodded slowly and looked at her the way that Daddy looked at her, like she was the most wonderful little girl in the world.

Rosie leaned in to kiss the spot. “Thank you,” she murmured, cuddling up to Sherlock and thinking that maybe scars weren’t so scary after all. She thought there might be a pattern to what caused these scars, a _feature of interest_ like Sherlock was always talking about. But right now she was so comfy, being hugged close by her favorite grown-up friend. She didn’t want to think too hard.

“You’re welcome, love.” Sherlock kissed her cheek and picked up his phone so the two of them could play a word game.


	4. Rosie's Badge of Courage

The injury that led to Rosie’s first scar happened just after her sixth birthday. She had spent the afternoon at Aunt Molly’s apartment looking at pictures of her present, a bulldog puppy. Her daddy had named it “Gladstone,” but she and Molly were laughing as they tried out funny titles and middle names.

She was sitting on the floor in front of an armchair, petting Toby and letting Molly play with her hair, when she heard her Papa Sherlock coming up the stairs. He must have been in a hurry, because he did not knock, instead opening the door without warning.

Toby yowled, darting for the hallway, and Rosie squeaked in alarm and propelled herself across the room in pursuit. She heard a loud crack and tripped a bit. The coffee table went sliding over the floor, but she was just in time to snatch the silly cat before he escaped out the door.

Before she knew it, both Molly and Sherlock were bending over her. Molly whisked Toby away, chiding him in soft tones, and Sherlock kissed her forehead as he carried her to the sofa. She didn’t know what all the fuss was about--why weren’t they congratulating her, or providing candy to celebrate her heroism?

And then she felt a throbbing pain in her leg, and an odd gooey wetness below that. She glanced down and started crying at the bloody gash on her right shin.

“Papa!”

“Oh, Rosie. I know that hurts. Let’s get it cleaned up and get you home.” He whisked around the apartment, gathering gauze, tape, and a flannel-wrapped ice-pack. He shook out a handkerchief from his jacket pocket and pressed it against the cut. Rosie whimpered at the pain.

“I know, Rosie. But you were so brave when you rescued Toby. Can you be brave just a bit longer?”

Rosie looked up at her Papa, rubbing fists against her eyes to dry them and sniffing to stop her nose from running. His eyes were concerned and loving. Rosie set her lips in a determined frown and nodded. She wanted to be brave like Daddy and Sherlock in the stories she always heard about their adventures.

He worked quickly to bandage her leg as Molly made her a cup of chocolate milk, which did wonders for her tears. Soon they were on their way home, Rosie cuddled into Sherlock’s big warm coat in the back of a black cab.

 

**********

 

Rosie made it a habit to look under the Doc McStuffins Band-Aids her daddies took care in applying every night before bed.

She didn’t tell anyone, but she thought Papa would approve. She was, after all, making observations and collecting data as she checked on the progress of her scab. She had never had a scab quite so big, and she couldn’t help picking at it a _teensy tiny_ bit...it just itched sooooo much!

Over the next few weeks, it grew smaller and smaller, until one day she peeked under the bandage, and it was all gone! Instead of the scab, she saw a thin, straight line. It was lighter in color than the rest of her skin, and very shiny. She ran her fingertip over the smooth skin and realized...

She was clambering down the stairs from her bedroom before she knew it, interrupting the pretty music coming from Sherlock’s violin. “Daddy! Papa! _Look!_ ” John held out his arms and pulled her onto his lap.

“What is it, Rose-petal?”

She hiked up the loose leg of her pyjama bottoms to display her badge of courage, “It’s a SCAR!”

She couldn’t hold back her excitement, so she jumped down, raced over to Sherlock, and showed him as well. “I have a scar just like you, Papa! And Daddy! And I even got it taking care of Molly and Toby.”

John looked at her quizzically.

Sherlock grimaced and said, “Rosie has made a hobby of investigating scars, John. She knows about your shoulder and my…” he tapped a finger lightly to the chicken pox scar on his nose as Rosie made her way back over to John’s lap.

“She knows that we got them while helping people we cared about.”

John looked up at his husband, small tears at the corners of his eyes.

“It’s a beautiful scar, Rosie. Truly a badge of honor. You should be very proud.”

Both of her daddies hugged her tight and kissed her scar. Gladstone even shuffled in from the kitchen to lick it, and they called Mrs. Hudson up from downstairs to see.

After clasping her hands together in astonished happiness, Martha Hudson ran back downstairs, returning with strawberry ice cream for the residents of 221B. Finished with the sweet treat, Rosie gave sticky kisses to her family and allowed herself to be ushered back to bed.

As Mrs. Hudson walked her from the bathroom (where she had been made to brush her teeth again) toward the stairs, talking about what bedtime story would be best for such a brave young lady, Rosie heard quiet conversation coming from the sitting room.

She glanced through the doorway as they turned to scale the stairs, and felt happy and warm at what she saw. Her father stroked over Sherlock’s left eyebrow with his hand, then pulled his face down so he could place a kiss there.

 

**********

  
“Daddy, I saw you kissing Sherlock’s eyebrow last night. So I looked at it very close this morning, and...he has a _scar_ there!”

“That’s right, Bug.”

“Did he get that scar by being brave like I was?”

“Yes, he did. He was very very brave, if a little...no, a _lot_ silly.”

John swallowed and looked over Rosie’s head to Sherlock, who was just emerging, dressed for the day, from their bedroom. His voice broke over the next sentence. “He was trying to rescue me.”

Rosie clapped and exclaimed, “He got it by taking care of someone he loved!”

John tilted his cheek up to accept a kiss from Sherlock, then smiled and replied, “Yes, Rosie, he did.”


	5. Mary's Grave

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock decide to take some time at the family's routine visit to tell Rosie more about her mother.

A few weeks after Ms Roth sent home the list of Rosie’s show and tell projects, her daddy decided it was time for another visit to Mama Mary’s grave. She stood by dutifully, just as she did every couple of months, as John replaced the old flowers with fresh lillies, his face serious, mouth set into a firm line, corners downturned. And usually now he stood, stiff as the statues around them, seeming to stare at nothing in particular.

If Rosie was honest (and it was _always_ best to be honest), she found the whole thing kind of...boring. Rosie preferred looking at the pictures of her mother that were displayed in their flat. Mary had been very beautiful, and so happy, sitting next to her father and Sherlock at the wedding. And even though she was sweaty and looked tired, she had a very big smile on her face while holding a minutes-old baby Rosie.

And she liked the stories Papa Sherlock told her about Mama Mary. He always made sure to say how smart and funny she was and _how much like her_ Rosie was growing up to be. Daddy didn’t say much when Sherlock told these stories, just nodding as he hugged Rosie close and whispered, “I loved her so very, very much.”

At this visit, instead of remaining silent and serious, John cleared his throat to speak. In the moment between that sound of intention and the words themselves, Rosie felt the weight of something very important in the air.

“Rosie, have I ever told you how brave Mama Mary was?”

She looked up at her father, whose gaze was not on her but on the gravestone. His eyes shimmered with tears. Rosie was a bit scared, because she didn’t see her daddy cry often. She turned to look past him to Papa Sherlock, wearing her questions on her face. He nodded slowly, encouraging her to answer, and reached down to hold his husband’s hand.

With bravery imbued by Sherlock, she turned back to John and spoke softly, “No, Daddy.”

“Well, Papa and I wanted to tell you because * _swallow_ *....your mother was a very special woman. And not only would _you_ not be here if she hadn’t come into my life, but Sherlock wouldn’t be, either.”

“What do you mean?”

“Your mother was a very quick thinker, and even quicker to act. She risked her life to save Sherlock’s.”

Rosie turned her eyes, huge with shock, back to Sherlock, who nodded again, a serious expression in his light eyes.

“It didn’t work...and she died.”

John lifted a hand to his eyes and Rosie saw his shoulders shaking. Shiny tracks of moisture appeared on his cheeks. Sherlock pulled him into a hug, then reached out to gather Rosie in as well. She used her short arms to circle her daddy’s legs, and she squeezed as hard as she possibly could.

Finally, John’s tears slowed and his shoulders stopped shaking. He lifted his face, cleared his throat, and sniffed a bit. Sherlock offered him a handkerchief, but he shook his head and set his face in a determined expression.

“But if Mary was still…* _swallow_ *...here, she would have a scar. A big one.” He smiled slightly and looked down at Rosie for the first time in minutes.

He grasped her small hand in his larger one and squeezed it twice. He looked down at his other hand holding Sherlock’s, then followed his arm up to the other man’s face. He seemed to find the support he needed there, just like Rosie had. So, with a deep breath, he turned back to his daughter and went on.

“We...just wanted to let you know...since, you know, you’ve been so interested in scars...and how they show…* _swallow_ *...bravery and...how much we...we care about each other.”

He met Sherlock’s gaze again, and Rosie saw more tears pooling at the bottom of his eyes. “Your mother cared about me...and you...and Sherlock... _so much_ that she didn’t think twice about trying to save him.”

Papa Sherlock’s nod was so small, Rosie almost didn’t see it. He leaned down to kiss her cheek and said, “Now go ahead and play, if you want.”

Rosie turned to run toward the park next to the cemetery. Another visit, this one particularly sad, was complete. But before she passed the big tree that would block her from their view, she remembered that she needed to let her fathers know where she was going.

She turned back to shout her plans, but Daddy and Papa Sherlock were again in an embrace, John’s face buried in Sherlock’s neck, his chest moving with slow, deep breaths as Sherlock ran soothing hands up and down his back, just like he did when Rosie was sad or afraid.

Sherlock leaned down to her father’s ear and whispered something. Then, placing a gentle kiss on John’s crown, his eyes met Rosie’s. He smiled sadly and spoke a bit louder so that she could hear his message, too.

“There is bravery in mourning, John. And not all scars are physical.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bitter Smirk has a lot to say about her voyage to understand Mary, and hard-won knowledge in the battlefield of Tumblr, but nonetheless: I hope my love for her character came across here.
> 
> And the explanation John gives in this chapter is simplified, of course, because even though Rosie is smart and brave and amazing, she probably wouldn't be able to wrap her mind around deadly spy Mary quiiiite yet.


	6. The Blog

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rosie learns about the emotional scars John and Sherlock have left on each other.

Rosie found the blog when she was eleven. She wasn’t sure why she hadn’t run across it before. She knew that her fathers had been famous, that Papa Sherlock in particular was a very good detective, and that her dad had diligently documented their adventures prior to her birth. For goodness sake, her favorite book was the story of how they met, A Study in Pink.

But here was an unfiltered account of their lives. And oh my God, it was so incredibly obvious. More than the boy band fanfiction she read after she was supposed to be asleep, more than the songs she cried over when the boy or girl she liked didn’t want to text with her anymore. The sentiment was crystal clear. Her fathers has been in love since the day they met.

She decided to keep her new knowledge a secret, and it quickly became her favorite bedtime reading material. The confirmation that their little family was built on such a strong foundation of love was powerful, so she tried to savor the blog, reading no more than one entry a night.

Until Sherlock went missing.

********

She had come home from an overnight field trip, calling up the stairs as she dumped her coat and shoes in the entryway to ask what was for dinner and if any interesting cases had appeared, of either the crime or medical variety.

It wasn’t too abnormal when she didn’t receive an answer, so Rosie sighed and hitched her bag back onto her shoulder for her trudge up the stairs to their flat. It looked like she’d be eating nutella and peanut butter tonight while she waited for her parents to finish their crime-fighting.

She entered the flat through the kitchen, dropping her bag on the table before crossing to the worktop to make a sandwich. She worked quickly and, dinner in hand, set her sights on the couch in the sitting room. She fully intended to get peanut butter all over the remote control while purposely neglecting her schoolwork, because They Deserved It.

Her plans flew out the window when she finally spotted her father. John was absolutely still in his armchair, head leaning weakly on his left hand as he stared, unseeing, at Sherlock’s chair. Her sandwich hit the floor and she fell to her knees in front of him.

“Dad?! Are you okay?? What’s wrong?” Rosie grasped her father’s shoulders and shook hard, but his eyes remained distant. “Where’s Sherlock?”

At that question, John blinked and glanced at his daughter’s face before scrunching his eyes shut. He clenched his lips into a thin line and his breathing became shallow. Rosie climbed into his lap and pulled him into a hug.

“Oh, Daddy. It’s okay. I’m sure Papa is fine.” She dug in her uniform skirt pocket and pulled out her mobile, hitting speed dial 5 for Uncle Myc. He just has to be fine, she thought.

John was shaking, sipping small whimpered breaths, and Rosie began to cry as well. When the call picked up, the words tore from her throat, “Sherlock is missing, and my dad is *not okay*.We need your help, Mycroft. You have to find him.”

Within a few minutes, Uncle Myc arrived, Uncle Greg hot on his heels. Mrs. Hudson followed the noisy fuss upstairs and gasped when she saw John. “Oh, no...oh, no...what’s happened to Sherlock now?”

The question confused Rosie. Now? When had anything like this happened before?

Mrs. Hudson leaned down to look at John's face, but he refused to meet her gaze. She surveyed the room and tutted as she cleaned up the dropped sandwich. Listening to her reassuring words about dinner and “letting the boys work,” Rosie allowed herself to be led downstairs.

********

Generally, Rosie liked Mrs. Hudson’s cooking, but tonight the soup and crackers tasted like glue and sawdust. She sat, chewing at her thumbnail, while Martha finished her own meal. Then, as soon as possible, she bolted back upstairs to check on her father.

The scene had changed, thank goodness. The three men were seated at the kitchen table, speaking in quiet, urgent tones. She breathed a sigh of relief to see that her dad was at least making eye contact with Uncle Greg. Mycroft was texting on his ever-present mobile.

Rosie caught sentence fragments that she probably shouldn’t have overheard: bloody stupid man...bolt holes....child slavery...sex trade...*five little blonde girls.* At those words, her father’s eyes turned to her, and he nodded at Mycroft. Uncle Myc cleared his throat and stood, placing a hand on Rosie’s shoulder and bringing her to the table.

John kissed her cheek and hugged her absently. All her questions died on her tongue as Mycroft picked up her bag and settled it on her shoulders, guiding her back to the door. “It’s better if you’re not here, Ms Watson. We need to concentrate on finding Sherlock, and we need to keep you safe.”

The door to 221B swung open and a woman Rosie had seen only once or twice stepped into the flat. “Anthea will take you to my house.”

And then, before Rosie could complain, she was being whisked past Mrs. Hudson (who also kissed her briefly on the cheek), out onto Baker Street, and into a waiting car with tinted windows.

********

“No, Anthea, I *don’t* want to eat ice cream OR paint our toenails!” Rosie railed at the petty suggestions the bored-looking woman insisted on offering after they arrived at her Uncle’s townhouse. “Do you really think you can distract me?? One of my dads is missing and the other is pretty much zombified. So sod off!”

Ten minutes later, tucked into an overly large bed with overly nice sheets, Rosie found that she did, in fact, need a distraction. More specifically, she needed to believe that things would be alright. So she used her phone to go to her happy place: The Blog of Dr. John H. Watson.

This time, she didn’t pace herself. She sped through entries, laughing at descriptions of Sherlock being rudely brilliant or her father feeling out of his depth. Her tears dried, and she was ready to doze off when she came across an “Untitled” entry, followed by one called “A New Beginning.” What the hell? Sherlock had *died*?

Her dad’s writing in these entries was numb. She’d never heard him like that, hopeless yet pushing himself forward with empty promises. Well, not until tonight. Just like earlier this evening, she saw John Watson failing in his fight against sadness as he tried to write about his best friend, the man he still believed in, the man who had...left him?

So Sherlock had left before, and it had nearly destroyed her father. Once again she heard the echo of Sherlock’s long-ago whisper:

Not all scars are physical.

Running her finger over the long-healed cut from her valiant rescue of Toby, Rosie thought as hard as she could, calling on the observation skills of one father and the violent passion of the other.

Bolt holes, bolt holes, bolt holes.

A hazy memory surfaced and Rosie fought to keep hold of it.

It was from a day when she was very small, before she called Sherlock “Papa.” A day when both she and Sherlock were very, very bored.

Sherlock had taken her to a place that she understood was to be kept secret. It was a greenhouse filled with nothing but cocoa trees. Sherlock talked and talked about the process that turned the small beans from the tall trees into the chocolate Rosie loved to eat.

They shared a Dairy Milk bar in a small, dark, but strangely comfortable room tucked in a back corner of the glass building. The atmosphere was foggy and warm, a welcome contrast to the dreary February day outside.

She remembered feeling excited and so, so happy. The day had been full of adventure, and for once she wasn’t scolded for eating her sweets too fast. After all, Sherlock told her, they had to keep the chocolate from melting! She’d never told anyone about their special day.

Rosie bolted upright in bed. She hadn’t heard Greg, Myc, or her dad mention that secret place tonight. And, based on the silence on her phone, they hadn’t found Sherlock yet.

“Well, then. I guess it’s on me,” she said, and threw her covers aside. She hurried to put her shoes and jeans back on, then scurried down the hallway. She grabbed one of Mycroft’s many coats from the rack in the foyer and, throwing it around her shoulders, stepped out into the night.

**********

Rosie walked quickly, keeping her eyes down. She didn’t take out her phone, instead relying on her mental map of the Underground to take her where she needed to go. It was a short walk to the train, but a more substantial trek after reaching Barbican Station.

Just as the City University Garden came into view, she felt a presence behind and to her left. She glanced over to see a man staring at her. Yikes, she thought, cringing. She was a young girl out past midnight, alone.

She heard heavy footsteps echoing behind her and doubled her pace. A minute later, she glanced back. The man pretended to be absorbed in his phone, but she faced front and sped up again. The clopping steps continued to match her cadence.

Finally, Rosie saw the foggy, glowing greenhouse ahead. She broke into an all-out sprint and bellowed Sherlock’s name. It was a desperate, last-ditch effort, she knew. After all, he might be miles away.

Just as she reached the glass greenhouse doors, they flew open. An angry Sherlock reached a hand out and around her waist, hauling her inside. He stepped out in front of her and stalked toward the creepy man, who was already retreating.

Rosie was still hands on knees, catching her breath, when Sherlock slammed the door and flipped the lock.

”Rosamund Mary Holmes-Watson. Just what in the sodding hell are you doing walking the streets of London in the dead of night?” His voice was deadly serious, shaking with anger, but she saw fear and relief on his face.

Sherlock closed the space between them and grabbed her shoulders, stiffening his arms as if to shake some sense into her. But she crossed her arms and lifted her chin, and he faltered. He sobbed out a breath and pulled her into a hug, bending his much taller body over hers protectively.

“Oh, Rosie. You’re so much like your father.” He paused, pulling back to look at her face, his voice dropping to a whisper. “And your mother. It’s why I had to do this alone.”

“Do what alone?” Rosie uncrossed her arms and hugged him back.

“Track down the kidnapper. Lestrade and Scotland Yard were even further off the mark than usual. They assumed that blonde girls were going missing for profit. But based on the socioeconomic status of the children-- all enrolled in public school…”

Rosie was content to let Sherlock talk for hours, now that she had her cheek against his stomach and could feel the vibrations of his deep voice, now that she knew it was the work of a short cab ride to bring her dads back together.

“...not to mention the geography of the abductions, most within a two-kilometer radius of Regent’s Park…”

She blinked opened her eyes. No one, not even the hastily assembled group tonight, had mentioned that these crimes happened so close to home.

“...or, of course, the short stature of the victims. It’s an elementary growth equation to project the height of Mary Morstan's daughter.”

Rosie stepped back from Sherlock, looking up at him as her vision blurred with frightened tears. “Papa...what? They’re looking for me?”

Sherlock looked down at her with such sad eyes, Rosie couldn’t hold his gaze.

“Yes, Rosie. *They* being your grandmother and grandfather...your mother’s parents. I gather they finally tracked their daughter to London and learned that she had a child about your age. And given that your mother left her home to distance herself from the crime syndicate that met there, it only serves to reason that they would resort to a less than legal approach to bring their only grandchild into their lives.”

Rosie felt weak, and Sherlock walked her back slowly to sit on a bare wooden stool. She looked around in a daze, noting the accumulated supplies. Just how long was he planning on staying here, away from their home?

“I left Baker Street in order to concentrate on breaking the case. I’ve managed to remove one agent from action, which has forced his colleague to lay low. I had intended to call Mycroft this evening to have him secure you and your father away from London, but it seems I...underestimated the effect my absence would have on John.”

His business-like speech slowed like rusty clockwork as he spoke his plan aloud. Rosie heard the creaky emotion in his words. As he settled to his knees in front of her, she grabbed his shoulders with her small hands and dug in with purple-polished nails.

“How can you be so stupid, Sherlock? Did you honestly not know what this would do to Dad? To me? Let us back in. Let us help!"

Her tirade lost steam as she saw Sherlock wince, then grow solemn. “We love you. Please come home, Papa.”

He managed a nod, eyes shining, before she buried her face in his neck and let her own tears fall. For a moment, they just held each other, taking mutual comfort.

After pulling back to wipe her snotty nose on the sleeve of Mycroft’s coat, she glanced up at Sherlock and smiled. “And anyway, it’s past my curfew...and it’s probably not the safest idea for me to be wandering the streets of London by myself. ”

Sherlock shook his head and exhaled a quiet laugh. He tugged lightly on her ponytail before pulling out his mobile to call a cab. They waited inside the greenhouse until headlights splashed bright through the glass.

Sherlock slid into the backseat beside Rosie, and she leaned against his chest. But before she let herself be lulled to sleep by the steadiness of the car’s motion and the warmth of Sherlock’s presence, she needed to say just one more thing.

“Papa. Remember when you told me that not all scars are physical? You had to know about Daddy’s scars from the last time you went away.”

She pulled out her phone, still displaying the sad entry on John’s blog. Sherlock took it from her and she saw his eyes work quickly, moving back and forth over the words.

“Of course I remember, Rosie. And all I can say is…I bear my own scars from that time. And this case, the danger to you, reminded me far too much…” He motioned at the phone, swallowing back tears before continuing, “of this. Indeed, both times, I left to protect the people I love.”

Rosie looked up at him, a thousand questions at the ready, but Sherlock looked so tired that she decided to give him a break...this time. She snuggled into him, and he sighed and threw an arm around her.

“I’ll tell you when you’re older.” He bent to kiss her hair as he tabbed backwards in her browser history to the very first entry.

“But how about a happier story? Before your father and I were...what we are...” Rosie swore she saw a blush on Sherlock’s cheeks. He cleared his throat and she held back a giggle. “I would read this entry when I needed to believe that he loved me.”

And, with that, he began to read the blog aloud. Rosie heard only the first two sentences before she drifted off to sleep, thinking, once again, about scars.

Maybe *everyone* had some invisible scars. And maybe they hurt the worst when you tried to hide them away, when you didn’t tell the people you loved about them.

Because....sure, scars *looked* shiny and new, but they were still weak spots. And the people closest to you needed to know about them before they could treat you gently.

Sherlock woke her later, and she sleep-walked up the steps to their flat. Her dad had fallen asleep on the sofa, and, at Sherlock’s silent nod, Myc and Greg left their reassembled family alone.

Rosie watched Sherlock awaken John with gentle kisses and murmured words of love and apology. He sat up quickly and, with his usual colorful language, told Sherlock and Rosie just how upset he was with their choices that day.

But as Rosie was pulled into a hug between the two men, she felt her dad’s breath hitch. And behind the bluster, she could hear him saying just how much he loved them and all the marks they left on each other’s hearts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my god, it's done. Writing this chapter was like giving birth to a narwhal. 
> 
> But it's done, and so is the fic. I hope you all enjoyed it. I don't write many cases, but I needed a reason for Sherlock to run away again. Many thanks to Brad Keefauver, janto321, mandysimo, and urbanhymnal for their ideas on how to make the story work, and so many thanks to all of you for your comments and love. 
> 
> The cocoa greenhouse is actually at Reading (http://www.icgd.reading.ac.uk/icqc/index.php) but I moved it to the City University garden for this story, because it was a theoretically perfect place for a bolt hole, given that Sherlock already had one at a greenhouse in Kew Gardens and I could see him sneaking sweets to Rosie. 
> 
> Also! City University prides itself on being very green. It has its own vegetable garden in a rehabbed section of Northampton Square (https://www.city.ac.uk/about/city-the-community-and-environment/get-involved/gardening) and recently gave some space to a hydroponics project (https://www.instagram.com/p/-mOcAzlBhZ/) dedicated to research on how to grow food in low-water areas. So maybe, ten years from now, they would have a greenhouse dedicated to endangered plants.


End file.
